Operation Sheba Read Free Page A

shoulder, he said, “This is bigger than you and me, Julia. You know I wouldn’t have left you if it wasn’t.”
    He reached inside his black leather jacket and pulled out a slim CD case. “I brought this for you.” He tossed the case on the bed next to her. “Don’t let anyone know you’ve seen me. Especially Stone.”
    Julia refused to acknowledge the gift or the demand. She watched Flynn’s back pass through the doorway, and continued to stare at the empty space for several seconds. Her ears strained to hear his retreat from the second floor. There was nothing. Confused? That was too mild for what she was feeling.
    Hurt, devastated, mad as hell.
    Relieved. He’s alive.
    Oh yes, overwhelming relief. Dropping her head into her hands, she began to cry softly. A minute later she ran into the bathroom and retched over the sink.

Chapter Three
    Michael carefully balanced a full mug of steaming Starbuck’s French Roast in each hand as he climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Thanks to the new Krups coffeemaker with a timer Abby had bought him, the coffee was freshly brewed every morning the minute he was ready for his shot of caffeine. This morning, he’d cut his shower short, shutting off the constant stream of unwanted thoughts about her, but the coffeepot was full enough he could still tweak out two cups. For now, he would force his mind to focus only on the next few minutes—coffee and the paper. The Washington Post and The Wall Street Journal were tucked neatly under his left arm.
    He paused at the top of the stairs and listened for the sound of the shower in the master bath. Not hearing it, he continued down the hallway to the bedroom. Maybe Abby was still asleep. A smile touched his lips. Maybe he could slide between the sheets and wake her up before dealing with the reality waiting for both of them.
    As he approached the room, his nose picked up a familiar but out-of-place smell over the scent of the coffee. He would have dwelled on it if the sight of the room’s French doors, opened to admit the morning light, hadn’t distracted him. Abby was sitting on the balcony, her back to him, her white shirt accenting the graceful arch of her shoulders above the black wrought-iron chair. Her lime green Sony Walkman laid on the matching glass and iron table, its ear buds lost under her brown hair. Abby and her music. She took it everywhere, usually with her iPod. Running, target practice, in bed at night, her iPod was as much a part of her as her right arm.
    Michael paused for a moment at the threshold, enjoying the sight of her relaxing in the open air. He had worked hard to get her there. In his mind, he remembered the first time he’d led her to the balcony.
    “Come look at the moonlight reflecting on the hills,” he’d cajoled. It was a beautiful night and he had planned his seduction carefully. She had finally accepted an invitation to his house, but he knew she was only intrigued by that, by him. She was there because he’d been her friend, not because she wanted him as her lover.
    “No.” Shying away from him into the shadows of the bedroom, she saw the confusion on his face, and tried to explain. “I would be an easy target. We would be an easy target.”
    He’d mentally kicked himself for forgetting. Because of her past, she would never walk out on a second-story balcony to simply enjoy the moonlight. Not even in America. Not even with the security guard at the gate, the laser tripwires and motion detectors. And not even with the CIA’s Director of Operations holding her. After what happened to her partner, it could be suicide.
    Months later, even after Abby was reading his books, helping herself to his best wine and sharing his bed every night, she still avoided the balcony like a child avoiding an unlit hallway. Only in the past few weeks had she begun sitting outside with him, enjoying coffee and the paper in the fresh spring mornings, a shot of brandy or a quiet dance in the shadows